


Do It Already

by Ambikai



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Knotting, M/M, Omega Verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-20
Updated: 2012-09-20
Packaged: 2017-11-14 15:54:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/517039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ambikai/pseuds/Ambikai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg Lestrade is an omega and Mycroft Holmes is an Alpha. Heat happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do It Already

It was a slow itch.

Or something like that. He wasn’t sure what it was because no matter what side of the bed he rolled over to, or whatever position he twisted into (sprawled out, curled up, straight and narrow) he couldn’t get rid of it. It was there in the depth of his belly, swarming and coiled – he wasn’t sure if that description makes sense but that was how it felt: coiled, ready to spring, a dull ache emerging. He bit his lip and screwed his eyes shut, and curled up on the side, holding the duvet closer to him.

He just needed to get to sleep, needed to rest and get the alcohol out of system – why had he drunk so much? Why hadn’t he just gone home instead of come here? Strange beds never did help when one was ill. He twisted onto his back his lower abdomen and back heralded a wave of discomfort. A stomach bug or something – ten-day-old leftovers never did go down well. He grit his teeth though, trying to sleep because in the morning it would pass. It would work its way out of his system and that would be that. He just needed to sleep.

A minute and no release; the expensive linen was too silky smooth against him as he tried to settle and the duvet was feeling all too close and smothering, constricting him. A spike of heat overwhelmed his body, every sensation screaming, too hot, too hot, skin a live fire for a second and then lingering. He scrambled out of the duvet, pushing it down, hands running over his heated body as if trying to push the itch-burn-ache that is intermixing away.

The cold air brought some reprieve and he lay there, eyes shut tight, however the moment he stopped running his hands down his body he squirmed, the sharp ache sensation back. Slowly he gently ran his left hand down his side, moving in over his belly and pushing deeper into to the skin until stopping just above his boxers, the pressure making his breath hitch and cock twitch.

He paused there for a moment and thumbed at his boxers, one finger slipping under, and reaching down to wrap his hand around his half-hard cock, running an experimental hand down it. This was all new, but wasn’t like an old friend, an old friend he couldn’t quite place the sensation near foreign (now). He did it again, closing his eyes and stroking hard, a light squeeze, thumbing the slit and foreskin, and then he stopped.

The itch exploded and he turned his head into the side, trying to bite his shoulder, hard, while still wanking himself, long hard consistent strokes growing faster in pace because as he did the cruel sensation that was seeping through alleviated just a little, just a little to not send his body into a state near agony. His cock was leaking, making it smoother, less rough as he continued to move along the pulsing flesh.

His pace increased, his tongue slipping out and tasting the air, smelling deep: smoke, paperback books, musty, sweaty – him. He could smell and taste himself, the edge of completion, and something. Something he knew, something that should not be happening – it should not even be possible. He had taken those bloody pills, taken the fuckers religiously.

His eyes snapped open. He rose, staggering to the bathroom, breathing harshly and heart racing, a incredibly loud thump thump, blood pounding in his ears. At least the air was lovely on his back, refreshing and easing the discomfort from the achey spikes of fire dancing along his nerves.. He fumbled in the darkness for the light, sticky fingers finding, flicking it on.

The light blinded him for a moment, forcing him to blink furiously while his eyes adjusted before he looked into the mirror – the entire bathroom was walled with mirrors actually. Trust bloody Mycroft Holmes to have his bathroom designed like this, the vain bastard. Everything was a reflection, a hundred versions of him going back and in each version of him his skin was flushed red, eyes darker than usual, and cock hard.

Swallowing he reached back to his arse, slipping a finger in and there. There it was: wet, very wet and already the ring of muscle loosening, one finger in without any pain. The wet was a slippery, slightly thick that as he removed his fingers slowly trickled down the back of his legs, gleaming in the bright light.

Fuck.

Fuck, because he wasn’t at home - why had he had to go out drinking? He had Scotch at home, he could’ve stayed there, stayed there and safely dealt with this. He sucked a breath in, home. Oh god, it had to come now when he had nothing - home was painful, painful because of the empty silence that surrounded empty spaces where Lego pieces used to litter the ground, school bags dumped at the door, and a constant noise of chatter and clatter consumed the hollow space - the flat felt like a grave yard ever since Annie and the kids had left, and his belongings packed up and ready to move somewhere smaller, cheaper.

Why? Why now? He sniffed the air and around his own scent he could taste Mycroft and how he was a constant measure in this home. Why had he allowed Mycroft to take him to his house instead of home? Why had he even picked up the bloody mobile when Mycroft called asking; asking what he wasn’t sure now since Mycroft didn’t ask. It had been that which had alerted Mycroft to his state: slurred speech, long pauses, and then stupid pointless words – because it was the Holmes fault Annie had left, because Sherlock and Mycrfot ate up his time – it wasn’t because he couldn’t say ‘no’. So many things he could’ve done to avoid being here.

This was not the right place to go into heat.

He was going into heat. He – how was that even possible? He closed his eyes, trying to pull back a clear stream of the last days but all he finds is a lazy haze of late nights, bitter coffee and running through London. Could he have forgotten? Could the alcohol have affected them somehow? He knew you didn’t drink with certain medication but the pills were never affected like that. Could he have forgotten?

Ten years gone.

Every day. Every day like clockwork. He wanted to curse Annie, wanted to because she was the one who had wanted more children – but didn’t want to be the ‘father’ wanted to play the mother which didn’t fucking work with an omega male now did it? Society assumed he was the ‘mother’, society was always going to assume that but that didn’t matter because they knew the truth – _we know_ – he had wanted to scream at her.

She was the one who had finally left – they had been arguing, fighting, and really who was mother and who was father was hardly the real problem. But it had felt like it was getting better. It had felt like it was improving. No, he was just being delusional to be honest. They both had been, they should’ve separated long ago.

Ten years. This was not going to end well. The symptoms were coming on fast; his body was rushing into it, welcoming it back and fuck it all. He went over to the sink and started to scrap at his hand, where the sticky lubricant clung to his fingers, running hot water. He did it until his skin was bright pink and only then did he stop, turning off the water and drying his hands.

He had to get out of here and to his empty home, grit his teeth and ride out this heat. He was fairly sure he still had some old sex toys – one dildo he hadn’t thrown out – it might need new batteries. He grimaced at the thought of going into the shops to get that – he would be reeking by then. Everyone would know what was happening and while it really wasn’t his fault he knew that they would judge, and if a stupid cocky young alpha came up to him … and then getting home …

The tube was out but he could walk. That was all. Walk, run even. He couldn’t stay here with an Alpha just down the hallway … unless. Mycroft probably wouldn’t want to mate – well his biology would tell him to but Greg was sure that mentally Mycroft was not interested at all. They were just friends and that was clear. This was a thank you for all the bullshit over the last four years with Sherlock, letting him stay here for tonight – Mycroft had never given up on trying to repay him. His mind churned this and there – a moment of brief clarity as his body felt an electric shock and shake as the coil in his belly threatened to unleash, cold sweat covering him. If he left a note in the kitchen – and outside his door, explaining the situation he was sure that Mycroft could arrange to get him a knotting dildo and leave him alone for the week – Mycroft did have another house after all.

He breathed in deep. Good, good. That was a good plan. He didn’t have to leave the house, didn’t have to place himself in any uncomfortable situations in a mad dash to get home. He just needed some pen and paper and then wait it out like he had when he was fifteen going into heat for the very first time.

How hard could it be?

He went over and pulled on his shirt and pants, hoping that it would suppress the smell just a little, keep it contained and unexposed to the air. He noted that there was some air freshener in the cabinet and quickly showered himself in it. He smelt like flowers, overpowering, his nose wrinkling and he was still there, his natural scent heightened by heat refusing to completely go, but good enough for the moment.

He moved out, stepping lightly and poking the bedroom door open, letting out a breath, body calming contrary to the mad jolts of adrenaline kicking about. No Alpha was just standing outside his door. Thank god. He moved down the corridor, grateful for the carpet softening his steps and made his way into the kitchen, eventually having to traverse across frozen floorboards.

In the kitchen there was some pen and paper by the cookbooks – and by the scent of it Greg could only guess that Mycroft employed a Beta of some sort – not surprising that even Mycroft wasn’t above that, considering he reeked of being at top of the food chain, dominance, old spice and omnipresence. Often at the Yard they tried to spread them out amongst Betas – and the odd Omega to calm them down because around one another they got rather territorial.

He tore off a piece of paper and started to write, scrawl almost ineligible, hand shaking. The pen made it to the end of the first line when the back of his neck prickled and a single sniff told him everything even if hearing didn’t inform him about the footsteps approaching.

_Alpha pheromones._

Greg edged around the side of the table, cringing at the squelching in his pants, his body preparing itself for the inevitable. The pheromones seemed to be speeding up his Heat, making it more aggressive. The scent of an omega, of him, saturated the air.

He looked up.

Mycroft stood there in a suit – though the jacket was off, his sleeves rolled up, and waistcoat still prim and proper. The man’s tie was loosened slightly and his top buttons was undone, showing a little skin that as he trailed his gaze up Mycroft’ lean and long neck to his lust ridden eyes.

“Sorry to wake you,” breathed Lestrade, despite knowing that Mycroft was not up, was probably working – and why had he been such a fucking idiot to be drinking so much that Sherlock’s big brother felt the need to babysit him? He dug his fingernails and fighting off the urge to simply throw himself at Mycroft.

“I wasn’t asleep,” said Mycroft, “And I …”

A pregnant pause, a pregnant pause and Lestrade considered just surrendering there and then.

“Yeah, sorry,” he said weakly.

“It’s hardly your fault.”

Tight, measured, each syllable punctured and then Mycroft was back to a stony face, trying not to inhale. Lestrade could see that wasn’t working, the bulge in Mycroft’s pants becoming noticeably larger, simple primal nature beginning to take over – he was Lestrade was surprised at how normal this conversation was going so far considering.

Especially as his eyes slipped down to Mycroft’s crotch, the phantom memory of a slick cock slamming in, knot swelling, biting, sweet release, and knowing he was … no, it was knowing that this time it wasn’t her, that thought incredibly pleasant. He pressed his thumb against his forefinger, digging the nail in and flicked his gaze up to Mycroft’s face, trying to keep it there.

“Yeah it is,” said Lestrade, pushing away the vivid images, “I must have forgotten to take my … listen um, I can go …”

“No.” It wasn’t growled but it was a near thing, Mycroft’s voice incredibly deep and clipping the sound short. Lestrade stepped back and then Mycroft coughed, and reassembled himself, “It wouldn’t be safe … I can arrange …”

“Good,” said Lestrade, “That’s good – I’ll just go back there then so that …”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

Mycroft nodded.

Lestrade didn’t move and neither did Mycroft who was still blocking the doorway.

The two of them locked eyes, and the last thing from their thoughts was the usual ‘well if you go that way, I’ll go this way’ spiel. That wasn’t it for him. His mind was consumed with Mycroft’s scent, heightened, pure and natural. It was the fact that Mycroft smelt so fucking good and his pants were probably sodden, his hormones going into overdrive to make up for the last ten years.

His skin was practically burning, God, he just wanted to strip and feel an Alpha’s knot plugging him.This would be a one off thing – Greg would go and buy Mycroft an expensive bottle of Scotch (when he had the funds) after and then they would be even, go back to the usual shady black cars and strong drinks, always inevitably dancing around Sherlock. If they fucked it would be a one off thing, nothing more, and then he would go back to his … he bit down inside his mouth, the bitter tang of blood doing nothing to halt his thoughts, his decision that yes, maybe he could have this, they both could.

(Mycroft who always stared, eyes trailing and assessing)

“Just fuck me already,” he spat out.

The words, just saying those four words seemed to strip the room of any tension as Lestrade leaned back against the countertop with Mycroft stalking over to him and drawing him in for a frantic kiss. He let Mycroft lead, terribly, needy noises escaping from him as the Alpha’s tongue explored deep, his body pressed against him, lean and firm but not hard, there was something soft, something utterly imperfect that made it perfect, the two of them.

When Mycroft pulled back he kissed the side of his face and down onto his neck, Lestrade arching his neck back, eyes shut close as he was lost in complete and utter sensation; little licks, swirling motions, open mouth kisses. He was ever conscious of Mycroft’s hand forcing its way between the countertop and his ass, the itch exploding and his body squirming.

Mycroft pressed against his jeans and he let out a small growl.

“Don’t fucking –”

He started to say it but Mycroft nipped at his neck, pleasure pain distracting him. It was probably hard enough to break his skin, in fact it was sharp ache shooting through, but all he did was respond with a breathy moan, rubbing against Mycroft frantically, trying to get friction, wanting to remove the layers separating them. Now. Oh god he was going to hell or something.

He started to kiss Mycroft’s face, small ones, quickening in pace as Mycroft started to attend to his jeans, tugging and damn near ripping at them. Lestrade started to wiggle to help them move down and the moment the cold air touched his ass, Mycroft’s fingers were in him.

Long, knowing, moving – he pressed his forehead into the crook of Mycroft’s neck, panting. Shit.

“So wet, so …”

Lestrade let out a cry as Mycroft’s fingers curled.

“You’re rather beautiful like this.”

Mycroft’s other hand was holding him so he didn’t slam back against the countertop, still pressing in, and then his voice grew harsher and low like a lover’s nips trailing down, “I’m going to fuck you until you’re a withering pile, begging for my knot and –”

Lestrade growled. “Stop talking about it and – ”

He never finished the sentence. Mycroft removed his fingers (no, no back back there), and in a fluid motion flipped him over so that his hips smashed against the counter top, sending pain richochetting down his body. Mycroft’s hand left him, going to get his own pants down, distracted.

Lestrade slammed back into Mycroft, twisting and wrestling him against the countertop. Mycroft may the biologic strength of an Alpha but Lestrade was trained. They struggled, grappling at one another, Lestrade’s heart racing because this was very new. This was – he shoved his weight against Mycroft, tipping him off balance and soon he had Mycroft pressed against the fridge, hands held above his head, both of them breathing.

Slow pants, the air was choked with them and both of them had feral grins on their faces.

“That hurt,” said Lestrade.

Mycroft grinned wider. “And you wrestling didn’t?”

They went back to kissing, Lestrade taking over and pushing back. He stopped and rested against Mycroft – if the Alpha wanted too he could regain control but Mycroft just let Lestrade breathe for a moment.

His body started to shake because what even was happening? He was on the edge, the heat ripping at him, and fuck he was so wet and Mycroft was so close, so close. He was going to get fucked, was going to be bonded, carry Mycroft’s child … he was forty-eight. Forty-eight and only now was he going to be fucked and bred by an Alpha – like he was made to.

The thought was arousing, no doubt but …

“Bedroom,” said Mycroft after several moments.

Mycroft kissed him on the forehead, sweet, gentle and that took the decision out of his hand. It was such a light brush, a little touch but it melted him like before hadn’t. His body was still a bit shaky, but there it was and he smiled, started pulling at Mycroft, feeling a little drunk though – different drunk. This was just following, was just doing. There was still some sense of utter clarity and he didn’t stumble but he wasn’t completely there.

They staggered through the house, continuing to strip off clothing, leaving clothing strewed along the floor. Lestrade made a comment about Mycroft’s housekeeper and was rewarded by being slammed against the wall, being kissed and having his cock stroked. Shivers of pleasure, quivers of something coursed through him as long fingers run along his cock, squeezing lightly. as Mycroft held him up, the floor suddenly incredibly tempting just to sink into.

“Can’t …” he breathed, “can’t …” he hung his head against Mycroft, mouth open and pressing against the heated flesh.

Mycroft’s stokes became faster, faster and he moaned deep as he came, spilling all over Mycroft’s hand. He was lowered to the floor, his back pressed back against the wall and his head thrown back, breathing deep.

He tilted his head to see Mycroft sitting there, right at his knees and holding up his sticky fingers and then slowly licking each one. He was taking his time, taking one and taking the whole length in and then pulling it out in a long slide. One, two, three, four, five and he then rubbed his saliva onto Lestrade’s skin, massaging his stomach muscles and hand going lower to Lestrade’s re-hardening cock.

“Fuck you,”

“You say that a lot,” commented Mycroft.

“How aren’t you fucking me into the floor?”

“Self-control, patience is a vir –”

Lestrade leaned in and started claiming Mycroft’s mouth. He pressed forward, trying to push Mycroft on his back on the floor, but meeting resistance and an equally manipulative kiss. They both pushed at it, until Mycroft growled deep in his chest, animalistic and had Lestrade on his belly, pressing his weight on him to keep him down. Lestrade pushed up, getting onto his knees while his arms supported his upper body.

A pause.

Lestrade couldn’t help but cry as Mycroft without ceremony slammed his cock into him. Thick and long, the lubricant easing the slide in but there was still some friction, a rough push. Tears burned in his eyes because while he was wet, becoming open he wasn’t there completely and Christ, the burn had not been nice, the blunt head of Mycroft’s cock , it fucking hurt goddamnit.

“Shhhhh,” said Mycroft. He was leaning in close, the angle making his large cock go deeper, making Lestrade squirm, try to get away, "This is going to feel so good, I promise. It's, ah, been a while, yes? Just take it, relax, relax, breathe,”

Lestrade followed the sound of Mycroft’s voice, relaxing into it, grateful for the hard floor diverting his attention as Mycroft thrust slowly, more gently in and out of him, each time going deeper. If before it had felt ‘good’ now it was heaven, his mind gone, breath is harsh bursts, biting his lip, bitter tang.

He was ever conscious of the overall warmth of Mycroft as he pressed against him, the panting, and the quivers of pleasure that shot throughout his body. He began to return the motion, moving back, the burn easing and nothing but relief, simple blissful relief. Oh. He can’t; words cannot form. He saw darkness but he feltl everything, hearing the sound of flesh slapping against flesh, taste the overwhelming sent of pheromones drowning the air, leaving no doubt.

The base of Mycroft’s cock began to thicken out and Lestrade tried to move off it, the knot pushing at the ring of muscles, demanding space and god he couldn’t. He was crying out, pleading for Mycroft to stop, stop right now because it was too big, too big.

Mycroft continued to thrust harder, deeper, in and in, not stopping, and holding Lestrade’s body tight, nails digging in, and leaning over, to the crick of his neck and sinking his teeth in, hard to break skin and to distract him from the knot. That hurt, blunt pain but the bite had a relaxing affect, his body going tight for a moment and then giving out, sending him crashing to the ground.

He lay there with Mycroft on top, both of them breathing hard and joined perfectly together. Every now and then Mycroft would rock a little, the knot tugging a little but not painful like before. They didn’t speak, couldn’t and even if they were to there were no words. He was pressed against the floorboards, body unable to function, tiny shivers running throughout with Mycroft possessive and crowding him, holding him still while he flooded him.

He was out of it – the early wrestling, the sensations that consumed everything, so intense and like blinding sunlight after being in the darkness all his life. Mycroft would take care of it, Mycroft would do that. His eyes closed and he drifted, not into sleep but into a semi-conscious state, only aware of Mycroft’s body heat, the cold floor and nothing else. No real thoughts crossing his mind as each pulse of Mycroft’s cock sent shivers of pleasure racing throughout.

Eventually the knot went down, and Mycroft pulled out, moving onto the floor with a thump. Lestrade shivered at the sudden cold air, tilting his head up to look for Mycroft who started to stroke down his spine, teasingly stopping just before his arse. They would go again soon. Not right now, but soon.

“Bed,” was all he said, arms gripping at Lestrade and lifting him up.

Lestrade whined, not wanting to move but ultimately following. They went into Mycroft’s room with Mycroft pushing him onto the mattress. He was sinking there and the moment Mycroft joined him he summoned some aspect of strength and wrapped himself around him, keeping him close.

It was all a haze in the end – at one point between the fucking and breaking Mycroft’s bedside table he could remember Mycroft trying to get him to drink something but at his constant refusals wetting a cloth and allowing him to suck on it, while Mycroft planted kisses here and there. His head and body was aching. Quiet moments like these were rare and in between, periods where Mycroft treated his body like a temple, no derogatory terms passing from his lips, reverent, fascinated, mapping out his body.

Lestrade was the centre in those moments.

There wasn’t any sense of time, just different places – the bed, Mycroft’s floor, against the wall with always each of them fighting for some sense of dominance – that he could remember because he actively did it. He couldn’t do that with Annie, he couldn’t wrestle and hit her and not care. Mycroft he could. He could just fight and that and the fucking was so sweet it made him on occasion just drop, everything drained.

Sunlight was filtering in the room when he finally opened his eyes. Mycroft was behind him, his cock inside him still and Lestrade shifted forward, getting out of Mycroft’s hold. He sat up, blinking hard and looking around. Sheets were ripped and everywhere, furniture was broken, and the smell of Heat was gone, leaving only the after smell of sex.

He looked down at his body, wincing at the bruises and scratches that were covering him. Looking at Mycroft he saw an equal amount. He smiled..

“We’re quite vicious,” said Mycroft, eyes opening.

“One way to put it,” he said, his voice deep and husky. His throat felt dry and sore, his tongue swollen, and he closed his eyes since the light was becoming a bit too much.

“Mmmm,” was all he got in response as Mycroft started to explore his body with light fingers. When he pressed into the bruise Lestrade slapped his hand away.

“Hurts,”

“I know,” said Mycroft, “I know,”

He felt Mycroft press a soft kiss, and then a dip in the bed as he got up. He peered through his eyes, tilting his head.

And then put his head back down on the pillow, closing his eyes and curling up, the warmth around him comforting almost against the ache in his head.

“You need to drink and eat,” commented Mycroft, “I’ll be but a moment.”

“I had some,” he protested, “And besides I didn’t need it.”

Heat, the one time when his body refused everything, entirely focused on it – and this was returned by the Alphas. During that time there wasn’t real need, there was only the actions – the pure. He frowned. Mycroft had tried to make him drink, Mycroft had been aware …

Mycroft shook his head. “You need to be hydrated – I do too.” With that he turned his heel and wandered out.

“You …” he didn’t finish it, just suddenly felt his skin flush, anger blossoming.

Lestrade gritted his teeth and swung his legs out of bed. Then he tried to stand, but the moment he pushed himself up he crumpled back onto the bed, his head dizzy. Taking in deep breaths he got up again this time to success and staggered after Mycroft, the motion slowly becoming more natural and the difficulty lessening.

There was a trail of clothing to follow, singular buttons that must’ve popped up lying stark against the dark wooden floors. He came to Mycroft’s briefs, lying by the spot when they had first knotted. A rush of memories, heated flesh, gasped sentiments, pleading, making his gut tighten, hand briefly touching his cock with parted lips.

But no, not now. Mycroft. He needed to deal with the bastard. He reached the living room when Mycroft came out of the kitchen with a tray – a jug of liquid of water, and two glasses. Mycroft didn’t even respond to him, merely going to the coffee table and placing it down and then sitting, filling the glasses as if they were dining with the Queen.

Lestrade ground his teeth together and joined Mycroft, taking the glass, small sip at first and then trying not to swallow in one gulp as the liquid, but his parched throat screamed for more. Sweet relief. He kept swallowing and when he stopped briefly for a brief still felt the dryness in his mouth. He lifted it up for another drink, the glass just resting on his bottom lip.

“Stop.”

He obeyed, placing the half filled glass down.

Still silence surrounded.

“I wasn’t aware that you were entering Heat.”

“Bull.”

“Something was off with your odour,” amended Mycroft, “But I did not think it was that but … maybe I did? I’m not sure. You were over your limit and needed –”

“Why didn’t you just take me to my home?”

“And left you alone?” said Mycroft, “I … this isn’t about keeping you safe for Sherlock’s sake. This is about you being safe – I …”

“Sentiment,”

He was well aware of Mycroft’s icy demeanour; all too aware of the man’s mantra. This wall he built up, a perfect mask because that was what Mycroft was, had to be to do what he did. Lestrade held no illusion that Mycroft had reached so high by doing questionable things, using the ends to justify the means. But he also knew there was this part that was completely and utterly human, caring about each decision he made.

That really cared about the few chosen people to an extent when they were a life force anchoring – he wasn’t the sort to exhaust his time and effort on just anyone. Only the select few. He would burn out if he did more.

He wasn’t aware that he counted, or was on his way to being counted.

“That’s strangely touching,” said Lestrade.

“Strangely?” said Mycroft, a single eyebrow quirked, “It is far more than that, Greg.”

They stared off, trying to read each other, well Lestrade trying to get a further read, trying to really know what was going on. Mycroft valued him beyond his original role. How much? Maybe at that moment his hand pressed on his knee, shifted up his leg, resting just below his stomach.

His womb.

“How aware were you?”

“Enough to be in vague sense of control, and enough to know I should’ve taken you home.”

“How much control?”

“I could still think … about how to make you comfortable. In an …”

“So more thought than a regular possessive Alpha, but still freaking a possessive Alpha.” Lestrade sucked in a breath. “Where … “

He blinked hard, tried to sort out the thoughts, the well-now-what, this-isn’t-a-one-time, fuck-he-knew-and-he-used-me, no-maybe-he-didn’t-know-maybe-it-was-fate, and at-least-I-like … the half formed thoughts that were raining down while Mycroft just sat there: stiff, like a statue, seemingly feeling nothing.

Lestrade knew better – a work-Mycroft was precise and exact true but this one was too frozen, too unmoving. And he was looking too intensely, dark eyes not leaving Lestrade for a moment. He was an ant caught under a microscope, a source of endless fascination.

Temporary even, maybe – he didn’t think so.

“What happens now?” he asked.

“You can do whatever you want from here,” said Mycroft, “Whatever you choose,”

There was a pointed stare at Lestrade’s then and he glanced down: pregnant – highly probable – in fact certain. There was such a low chance of him not being pregnant – not like with an Alpha and Beta where it was fifty-fifty, and Heats always increased those odds. If only he was a little older, had lost his fertility – most Omegas his age were starting this but no not him - he was forty-eight and pregnant again, brilliant.

He’d be in his seventies when the kid reached twenty. A kid – would he be tall and lithe like the Holmes or stockier like him. Dark hair most likely and …

“And you won’t care?”

Silence again greeted them as Mycroft glanced off to the side.

“I will care,” said Mycroft, “But that doesn’t mean it isn’t your choice.”

Choice.

He closed his eyes and leaned back. His choice.

“That doesn’t help me.”

Mycroft was getting up, he could hear it all crystal, and Lestrade froze as he approached, but he didn’t move when Mycroft sat next to him, body invitingly warm but so close. He pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth, trying to curb the instinct to inhale deeply.

Keep it together, he thought, just get this out.

“I don’t want to … I mean not that … but a kid now …”

He had one relationship that was only held up together because of kids and he loved them but not her. He couldn’t go through with that again.

“Greg,” a warm shiver ran through his body, “if I didn’t care for you I would not have picked you up last night, and before you ask – the capacity that I care for you is not tied to your status as an omega nor has it ever been.”

 _How can I know that?_ He couldn’t know that. He would never know that.

He opened his eyes, inhaled.

They remained in silence for a moment, Mycroft no doubt reading into everything, knowing everything in an instant and thankfully not commenting on it, only smiling, pleased.

“Don’t be cocky,” said Lestrade.

“I wasn’t –”

“Yeah you were.”

**Fin**

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to everyone who cheered me on when writing this and helped :) I very much appreciate it.


End file.
